Page 51 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

Nate

I

t’s

fucked

up

how

comforting this feels with Quinn around. Her being here, watching everything through that damn camera of hers… it’s giving me a piece of myself back. Back before all the shit happened. Before the silence. Before Bianca’s name started tasting like grief every time I thought about her.

There was a time when I used to laugh more.

Talk shit. Throw myself into life as if it couldn’t touch me. Fear was something other people carried. I was born with bare hands and a bulletproof grin. That version of me doesn’t exist anymore. He’s buried under the years of loss.

Now, I exist in the after.

But Quinn... she cracks something open. Brings flickers of that old me back. Little slivers of light cutting through all the dark. She doesn’t know she’s doing this. But she is, and I don’t know whether to thank her or run until the ache in my chest stops.

I was never the serious one.

That was Theo. Hood up, walls high, hiding behind silence as though it were armor. But after Bianca died, I turned into the one who couldn’t talk. Couldn’t breathe or register anything that didn’t burn.

The steaks are already drowning in marinade.

Soy. Garlic. Black vinegar. A fuck-ton of cracked pepper.

My hands are deep in a bowl of marinade, coating the steaks I bought this afternoon from some overpriced butcher.

The radio hums low in the background. My fingers are stained with sauce, my jaw’s clenched but my thoughts are somewhere else entirely.

Theo’s on the couch, locked in a heated Mario Kart race with Alex. They’ve been at it for half an hour.

Every now and again, I hear Theo’s voice rise in dramatic horror when Alex throws a banana peel at him or overtakes him before the finish line.

“You’re cheating!” Theo yells, laughing. “There’s no way you hit that drift by accident.”

Alex cackles like a little demon. “Get better, old man.”

Old man. He’s six and already has Theo wrapped around his finger. The two of them are chaos and comfort in one.

I glance over my shoulder in time to see Theo leap off the couch as his kart crashes into a wall. He throws his hands up in mock despair, and Alex howls with laughter, clutching the controller above his head as if performing some kind of victory dance.

“You got lucky,” Theo tells him, slumping dramatically against the cushions.

“I beat you five times. That’s not luck.”

Theo ruffles his hair, and Alex bats him away, still giggling.

I should be smiling, enjoying it like I always do. That scene always loosens something inside me, but not tonight.

Tonight my focus is on that fucking chair in the corner. The one Quinn usually curls up in, legs tucked, eyes watching everything like she’s documenting the world. But the chair sits empty. Has been ever since we got home from Ace’s.

Something’s wrong. I can feel it.

Quinn’s been quiet all day. Too quiet. Said she had edits to make, photos to upload, and shots to send to Kit. But I know the difference between working and hiding. I know what pulling away looks like, and I fucking hate that.

She didn’t even join in earlier.

All of us sitting around at Ace’s, drinking, half-buzzed on that rush that hits when the prep’s done and the real work begins. The first song is getting recorded tomorrow.

She didn’t even take out her camera earlier or laugh at the way Theo faked pulling a hamstring after Alex made him do burpees. She only sat in the chair with her eyes miles away.

And I can’t stand it.

I press the air out of the bag, seal it tight, and toss the whole thing into the fridge.

Theo curses behind me. Again.

Alex laughs so loud the sound echoes, this evil little cackle that only a six-year-old on a sugar high can pull off.

“You cheated!” Theo calls out, breathless and dramatic.

“No, you’re just bad,” Alex fires back, voice high and full of glee.

I turn my head to see Theo hunched over on the couch, shoulders tense, controller clenched tight, jaw locked in frustration. Alex’s legs are crossed, face smug as hell, tongue peeking out the side of his mouth while his fingers blur over the buttons.

I wash my hands in the sink, watching the marinade swirl down the drain. I dry them on a towel and head for the back door, needing air.

The backyard is quiet.

Only the sound of distant cars and the occasional bird cutting through the stillness.

I step outside and lean against the railing, breathing in the night.

The breeze carries a chill, but I don’t move.

I welcome the cold. Maybe the sting in the air will wake something in me.

Maybe that same pull will bring her out here.

A minute passes, followed by another, before the door slides open and Theo steps out.

“You need help with the grill?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck.

I shake my head, eyes still fixed on the horizon. “I’ve got it.”

We’re both quiet for a beat, watching the dying light disappear into the night.

“Quinn okay?” he asks finally.

And fuck, there it is. That same gnawing unease I haven’t been able to shake since this morning.

“She’s been quiet,” he adds.

I nod once. “Too quiet.”

There’s a pause. The kind that drags. Then—

“Come on, Uncle Theo!” Alex’s voice floats through the screen door.

Theo flicks a glance toward Alex, before turning back to me. His face softens.

“Go check on her,” he mutters. “I’ll stay here and get my dignity shredded by a six-year-old dictator in Crocs.”

And with that, he’s gone, slipping back inside.

I remain where I stand a moment longer, watching the door, listening to Theo and Alex. After that, I head inside.

I move past the couch, sidestepping Alex’s wild arm movements and Theo’s dramatic groan as another red shell wipes him out.

I pass the laundry room, the door half open, and the place is a fucking disaster.

An overflowing basket sits lopsided right inside, towels spilling over the rim.

A crumpled shirt lies half in, half out of the doorway, as if someone kicked the thing and gave up.

No one’s touched the mess in days. Probably won’t anytime soon.

I keep moving.

Every step toward her room makes me nervous.

I stop at her door.

Breathe in.

Lift my hand.

Knock once.

“Come in.” Her voice is soft.

I push open the door.

She’s lying on her side, one arm curled beneath her head, the other resting across her stomach. Her tights cling to her legs, her top riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of skin.

She’s fucking beautiful.

She has always been.

It’s in the shape of her mouth, the delicate lines of her face, the kind of symmetry that makes you pause when she laughs or pulls her hair back or stares you down like she’s about to call you on your bullshit.

It’s in her high cheekbones. The faint freckle under her left eye I’ve known about since we were kids.

In those lips, full, bitten raw from how she holds her bottom lip between her teeth when she’s anxious.

In her eyes, when they’re not avoiding mine. They hold entire storms.

This isn’t new. I’ve always known the truth.

Always fucking felt that pull in my gut when she was near.

I never let myself sit with that weight for too long.

But now. Now I’m really looking at her. And fuck me if the hit doesn’t land hard.

All of it. The softness, the strength. The kind of beauty that’s always made her dangerous.

To me, anyway.

“You good?” I ask, stepping inside.

She shifts slightly on the bed.

I don’t wait for an answer. I move across the room, toe off my shoes, and stretch out beside her. My body sinks into the mattress, the warmth of her right beside me, close enough to touch.

Her eyes stay on the ceiling as her hands rest flat on her stomach, fingers lightly tangled. A quiet stillness lingers in her.

I watch her for a second longer. The way her lashes shadow her skin. The shape of her mouth. All those soft features I’ve always known but never let myself really look at.

“Quinn,” I say, voice low.

I reach out, fingers brushing her chin, and tilt her face toward me. Her skin’s warm under my touch. Soft. Familiar.

My gaze drags over hers, catching the subtle flicker in her eyes as they trace mine. She’s reading me, same way she always has.

Without warning, she shifts. Rolls toward me. Her thigh brushes my leg, and her hair falls across the pillow in a way that makes the air hard to fucking breathe.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about Theo,” she says.

I roll to face her, propping my head up on my hand.

“What about Theo?” I ask, but my focus is still caught on her mouth.

She hesitates, only for a second. After a beat, her voice drops, quiet. “He’s different now.”

My brows twitch. “Different good, or different bad?”

She lets out a shaky breath. “Neither. Just… different.”

I wait, letting her find the right words.

“I remember when he used to hide behind those awful hoodies,” she says. “Used to pull the strings so tight you could barely see his face. Always had his head down, always quiet unless we were alone.”

I nod. “Yeah. He was all shadows back then.”

“But now he’s loud, playful, and charming as hell. And he knows it. A confidence lives in him that never existed before.”

I smile faintly. “That confidence is mostly bullshit.”

Quinn lets out a soft laugh, but a trace of sadness lingers in the sound.

“I guess I didn’t expect him to be the one who changed the most,” she says. “Not in that way.”

I shift a little, lying flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling for a second.

“He rose.” I keep going even though I feel her eyes on me. “He doubled down after Bianca died. Made her this unspoken promise to never dim. Never apologize for who he is. He started showing the world every fucking loud, brilliant, messy piece of him. All of it.”

She doesn’t interrupt.

“And I… I caved inward,” I admit. “He exploded out, and I folded in. We flipped.”

A beat of silence stretches between us.

“I think about that a lot,” she says. “How grief hits everyone differently.”